


what happened

by Splatx



Series: what happens [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28073649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splatx/pseuds/Splatx
Summary: He couldn't take his eyes off the swell of your stomach.
Relationships: Flaco Hernández/Reader
Series: what happens [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980802
Comments: 3
Kudos: 32





	1. the aftermath

You drove Flaco to distraction.

Your Heat had been a wonderful thing, hot and messy and needy, though he'd been careful not to knot you again. It  _ hurt  _ without his knot, he'd tried to tend you with his mouth but without his seed and tie to sate you you'd been miserable by the end, curling up, shivering, in his arms.

  
  


The morning your Heat had ended he'd woken to you scrambling out of the bed, bolting for your clothes and fleeing outside, ignoring his calls of your name.

And, where once he could count on weekly visits, it had been months, and you'd yet to show your face again. He'd sent his men up to the Adlers' steading, but they hadn't seen you either.

He was starting to fear he'd never see you again. 

  
  


So when he heard his men call out their warnings, and then a greeting to you, he could have keeled over dead of sheer relief.


	2. and she returns

It took all he had not to fling the door open and gather you in his arms - he had to dig his fingers into his legs, nearly gashing them open on the knife he’d been whittling with. _‘Don’t do it Flaco, don’t do it Flaco.’_ But he wanted nothing more than to grab you up in his arms, bury his nose in your scent gland, maybe even sink his teeth in your bonding gland and mark you as _his,_ like he should have done when he’d had you.

But he couldn’t - you’d never forgive him - so he practically vibrated in his chair, trying to play it cool, as he waited for you to come inside. It would take a moment, he knew, as you always made sure whatever horse you’d chosen to ride that day was well set-up, tied beside the shack to keep him or her out of the cold, and fed to make up for having to ride through the knee-high snow.

  
  


He needed something to do with his hands so he picked back up the wood he’d been shaving into… not much at all, he’d been whittling for years but never had much managed to carve anything more than a chunk of nothing out of the wood, trying not to stare at the door as he waited for—

—it to slam open, and only knowing that you were coming kept him from jumping. “Eeeh, _chiquita,_ where the hell you been?” he barked, hands going limp in his lap though he looked at you with relief in his eyes - or, at least, what he could see of you, because you were covered from head to toe though, for once, the Grizzlies _weren’t_ howling with a snowstorm. Your Rexroad bandana was pulled up over your nose and mouth, the coat fastened as tight as it would go. The Rexroad hat was pulled low over your head, though it was impossible to miss your eyes glaring out at him from the gap and the elation that had flared in his chest flickered and threatened to die.

“Flaco.” you grunted, reaching up to toss your hat onto the bed and unfasten your bandana, and he was horrified to see your face - you’d lost a lot of weight, weight you hadn’t had to lose, your skin pale and blanched and clinging to your bones, black circles around your watery, bloodshot sunken-in eyes. “We need to talk.”

Oh god, the dreaded ‘we need to talk.’


	3. and they speak

“For the record,” you started, “the blame lies on both of us.” and _the blame? Oh,_ his heart sank, you were going to decry your Heat, going to say it would never happen again. Which he’d been expecting, had known, but he’d thought you’d merely never speak of it again and that would be that.

“I should have felt my Heat coming on. You shouldn’t have knotted me at all.” your voice was oddly cool, face blank. “But what’s done is done. What happened, happened, alright?” he nodded, feeling like a chastised pup.

“We have to talk about the consequences though.”

_‘Consequences?’_

You undid your coat - that long black one that smelled of another Alpha and that he wanted to snarl at - and he could have keeled over of a heart attack. Your stomach was rounded - only barely, he wouldn’t have noticed it if it weren’t for how the rest of you was so thin, the way your shirt hung off of it.

“I’m not going to be your kept Omega, Flaco. I’m not going to sit around here and tend your hearth.”

All he could do was stare.

“I’m not going to sit at your side and raise your pup. I’m not going to jump when you say to and spread my legs for you when you snap your fingers.”

He was… going to be a father.

You looked at him as though expecting him to snarl, to snap, to start yelling. But his expression was hardly what you’d expected; he looked like his eyes were going to pop out of his head, his jaw to drop clean off his face. His gaze hadn’t left the slight swell of your stomach, and he didn’t look like he was breathing.

“I’m… going to be a papa?”

And, of course, that’s what he took away from it.

  
  


Flaco wanted, nothing more, than to scoop you up in his arms and spin you around. Laugh and cry and kiss you, kneel at your feet and kiss your stomach, scent you and bite you and mark you as his. Run out and announce to his gang, to the _world,_ that you were carrying his pup, that he was going to be a papa.

But you looked so wary, so hesitant. Eyes hooded and dark, staring at him as though expecting an explosion, a blow.

“Yes, Flaco. You don’t… you don’t have to be involved if you don’t want to be. I don’t know what I’m going to do with them. But I felt it only right, as the sire, that you knew.”

_‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with them.’_

There were so many ways he could take that. There were medicines you could drink that would kill the fetus - might kill you alongside them, they were so dangerous. You could be speaking of dropping it off at a farm, at a homestead, at an orphanage, set out to die of exposure.

  
  


“I want to,” he said, voice as though trying to soothe a horse, “to be involved. If you’d let me.”

The tension, at least some of it, left you. “I’d… like that. I won’t be your house Omega, though. I’m not going to be around all the time, I’m not going to always be there to pick them up and kiss their boo-boos. That’s not _me.”_

And it wasn’t. He tried to imagine you in such a way, and couldn’t. The thought of you tending a stove, or mending clothing, weaving and crafting, it didn’t fit or make sense. He could only imagine you out on your horses, shooting and thieving and living.

“Of course,” he purred your name, “I would never expect that.”

_Oh dios,_ he was going to be a papa.

  
  


You left that night to get your affairs in order, and his gang shot to their feet in alarm when he whooped at the top of his lungs.


End file.
